


The Fool Upright

by Onus_Probandi



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Caim its ok bby, Caim's backstory au, Gen, i wrote this in 10 minutes, like this is really bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 16:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18253727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onus_Probandi/pseuds/Onus_Probandi
Summary: Tick, tock, tick, tock. The Fool ticks to his end.





	The Fool Upright

**Author's Note:**

> I want to write something about Caim but longer than this. This is just for a class I have and I didn't have much time ><
> 
> twitter: @irridallium

Tick, tock, tick, tock. The clock ticks towards 11 when the mother gasps in pain, grips her sides and screams as the contractions come fast and hard. The pregnancy has been a difficult journey and she wonders at the end if the result is worth it.

The child looks nothing like them, pale hair and dark, dull eyes, peach skin, and he teeths on his gums 

The child speaks on the fourth day, an unholy, unexpected noise that rings through the house, frightens the old maid and the servants. They scream and chatter that the boy is cursed, the boy is a witch come to strike them down for their sins, Satan incarnate to drag them into hell.

He speaks of the futility of their lives with a child’s sweet tenor, eyes glazed over and dull as he explains quite plainly that their existences are worthless. Why bother changing the spoiled diapers of a silver spoon baby to make meager shillings for an ungrateful family? 

 

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. 

The ornate blue and gold grandfather clock still dances, pendulum catching the sunlight streaming in through high windows. His dark shoes tap and resound along cool marble tiles, small feet all but vanishing in too big shoes. Pens and uncapped markers scatter and roll under carved couches and plush ottomans as his drawing reaches its climax, deeming it art with a final dramatic swish of his pencil.

Caim proudly beams at his artwork and, despite the futility of it all, grins at his mother and father who only share a bland glance to one another.

 

Tick, tock, tick, tock. 

They yell at each other in the opposite room, but the vault of the ceilings carry their voices until they reach a crescendo of screamed insults and mentions of his name.

Caim cowers under his bed, knees pulled to his chest, pillow clasped tightly to his head. He’s known for years that his efforts to pretend at being a good son lack any conviction and genuine emotion, and he’s known that they know. That they judge him. 

That they hate him for everything.

 

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Caim awakens one morning to find himself abandoned by his parents, his servants, his status.

He does not cry, for there is nothing to mourn. Made up titles and popular sovereignty, striking it rich by accident and hoarding prosperity on purpose. Ancestral wealth disguised as intellect and skill, he should be so pleased that he’s freed from his chains of make-believe, that he no longer has to tolerate them.

He does not cry, for there is nothing to fear. The dark comes far too soon as he hikes through the thicket, the invisible demons dance in the fringe between his small radius and the depths of the woods.

Yes. He does not cry.

He  _ despairs _ .

Irrational, childish phobias rise up unbidden in his underdeveloped mind, the screeches and cries from forest monsters doing nothing to soothe him.

Trees twist and bend, claws snapping and teeth bared in a grimace that demands that he either get out or become supper.

Despite being outside, the walls close in on him, constricting his fragile body and crush his ribs.

He is but a child, yet he welcomes death in whatever form it may come, limbs trembling until they give out and he awaits his reaper to tut at his strand and cut it short.

He misses the nostalgic sound of the grandfather clock.

 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The hands encircle his throat as he thrashes wildly, claws at the hands, begs for air as he draws blood from the merciless hands.

He cries, sobs with his last breath.

Hanged Man finds it easy to break the Fool’s neck.   
  



End file.
